Where Arthur is Wrong Again
by Audley
Summary: ...and Eames is actually right. Sequel to This Table Thinks You're Hitting On Me. Because there is only a certain level of uncomfortableness in your pantal area you can reach before you realize you're in love with a hot forger. Arthur/Eames.


Inception. NOT MINE.

Sequel to This Table Thinks...you get the picture.

* * *

Arthur wakes the next morning (afternoon, really) with a raging headache and a sour taste in his mouth and a dim memory of having made a complete fool of himself the night before. He sits up suddenly and regrets it immediately, so he eases himself back against the headboard and moans.

Something stirs at the corner of his eye and he turns (carefully) to see Eames stretched out next to him on the bed. He's still wearing the same clothes as yesterday but Arthur is—he checks under the covers to be sure—naked.

Arthur's mind leaps to conclusions but common sense reigns it back in quickly. He knows there has to be a reasonable explanation for this. Eames wouldn't—they hadn't—_that_ couldn't really—

"Eames," he whispers, suddenly nervous. "Eames!" he says louder, and the man jerks awake with a grunt, wiping drool from his lips. He turns to squint at Arthur with one eye. "Wuzzat?"

"What happened last night?" Arthur is back to whispering.

The squint turns into a full glare. "What do you think happened last night?" Eames growls.

Arthur just waits, trying to keep his hands from clenching too tightly on the sheets. Eames turns his head away in disgust and sits up. He stretches and groans as his back cracks. "We went out to a bar. You got pissed out of your mind and started playing with gravity, so I brought you back here, where you threw up on yourself, on my bed, and in the tub. I got you to undress yourself, and then you passed out."

Arthur nods. Perfectly reasonable. "Okay," he whispers. Eames glances at him over his shoulder, his face unreadable.

"I'm going to take a shower," Eames says, and starts walking towards the bathroom. "When you're feeling better, get the sheets off that bed and then get lost. Couldn't sleep a wink with you kicking at me every ten minutes."

Arthur nods again. Eames shuts the bathroom door. Arthur is still nodding, his eyes fixed on his knees, and he feels obscurely disappointed for no reason he can articulate.

/

Eames has been standing under the hot stream of the shower for twenty minutes, thinking about Arthur naked. It's been an entirely enjoyable twenty minutes, spoiled only by the thought that when he finally leaves the bathroom, Arthur, clothed or otherwise, won't be there anymore.

He knows Arthur. Arthur will be horrified at himself. He'll leave the room quickly and quietly, head bowed, shame pressing him down, like a dog that's been caught piddling on the carpet. He won't look at Eames for days, and avoid talking to him whenever possible. He won't apologize. But after about a week or so he'll bring it up, casually, and try and assure Eames it'll never happen again. Not that it's happened many times before, not like Arthur routinely needs Eames to assist him (and nevermind that Eames never minds), but Eames thinks he understands how Arthur works after five years of being mad for the blighter.

Last night is still fresh on his mind, the memories of Arthur's smell and his hands and his lips, and lying next to him, close enough to feel the heat off his skin but not close enough to touch, and they're real enough to almost give him hope. He thinks for a minute maybe he should tell Arthur it happened, then shrugs at his reflection in the mirror. Arthur doesn't remember, and if he did, he'd deny it. He'd deny everything, and if Eames pressed him (what did you mean when you said, 'a quick drink'? What were you thinking when your head was in my lap? Then why didn't you push me away?), he'd have some pre-prepared, 'perfectly reasonable' (Arthur's phrase) explanation.

And Eames will believe it. It's enough. It will be enough.

(It sounds more convincing every time he thinks it.)

Eames sighs once, heavily.

/

Arthur hears the shower cut off, and he's still sitting on the bed. He'd gotten up, found his pants and put them on, then sat down again, because he realized there is no part of him that wants to leave.

Even though he can't really remember the details of the night at all. Which is usually an indication that Arthur has made a huge ass of himself and should slink away while he can. This time, he thinks maybe he should—apologize? For taking advantage (déjà vu? Arthur brushes it aside) of Eames's unfailingly good English etiquette, the sort that requires him to assist an intoxicated fellow in need—

The door to the bathroom opens and Arthur is startled at how startled he is. A thousand things rush into Arthur's mind at the sight of Eames with only a towel on, and rush out again just as quickly. He does know why he doesn't want to leave.

"Hi," he says, hoping he sounds nonchalant.

/

_Hi_, he says, just _hi_, as if he's just walked into a surprise birthday party where everyone was expecting him and he's not surprised by it at all, cool as a fucking—

"Eames?"

Eames blinks and grips his towel tighter. "I thought you'd be gone by now."

Arthur lowers his eyes to the floor. "I—"

But Eames doesn't let him finish. "And by that I mean, what are you still doing here? I did ask you to leave."

Arthur says nothing, remains motionless. Eames taps his foot on the floor. There's a perfectly reasonable explanation. As always. This means nothing.

(He wishes he felt more sure of that, but at the same time he doesn't.)

Eames is waiting, foot tapping, eyebrow raised, but Arthur doesn't know what Eames expects him to say or what Eames wants him to say or even what he wants to say, but he has to say something before this silence transcends into the awkward zone (if it hasn't already) and then he's really fucked because if there's anything that'll send Eames running faster, it's an awkward situation.

Arthur looks up at the ceiling but doesn't see it. He closes his eyes but he can still feel Eames's gaze—_dark eyes boring into his own, stubble that left his chin feeling scraped, the smell of alcohol on the air that is suddenly cold on his lips. _His heart is pounding. (No wonder he felt like such a fool when he woke up.)

Arthur opens his eyes and looks at Eames and watches him watching him, and he can't tell what he's thinking, can't read any emotion in his face or in his body language, even though he's the best at that, almost as good at Eames, who notices everything (because his life often depends on it), he thinks he's probably better at reading Eames than Eames is and that's probably because whenever Eames is in the room he's the one paying the most attention to him.

And even now even though there's only one other person in the room it's the only person Arthur has ever fixated on so completely that he's even forgotten to take care of himself.

(It's not only Eames, it's _Eames_.)

He remembers being in fourth grade and feeling so smitten with some girl (name forgotten) he couldn't look within ten feet of her, but with Eames he's afraid once he looks he'll never look away, and he wonders if Eames can't look at him right now either. He wonders, he wonders, _he wants to know_ (he's afraid to look), he can't—he won't—he can't look at Eames just yet, he can't, it'd be too obvious, he can't do this, he should have just left while he had the chance, he _can't_, he can't—

"Look at us," he says, and his voice cracks, surprising him. He clears his throat. "Two grown men. Adults. And we can't even—" now he has to swallow, his throat is so dry "—we can't even _look_ at each other."

He hears Eames shift position, hears his heel scuff the floor, his shoulder brush the door. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm looking right at you."

Arthur glances up, quickly, and it's true, he is, and Arthur's heart sinks.

"I'm sorry," Arthur blurts out, before he can stop himself. "I'm sorry I kissed you last night. It's just you've been driving me crazy, and I've been driving myself crazy, so that's why I asked you to get a drink with me last night, not that I was planning anything, but I was—some part of me was hoping something would, you know, just happen, but I was too—I mean I couldn't—" he stops, and hangs his head. "I'm just _sorry_."

He squeezes his eyes shut, but his ears work just fine and he hears Eames's towel hit the floor and he looks up. And it takes him a second (because Eames is right, he clearly has _not_ been dreaming big enough) and then he looks further up, and he sees the look on Eames's face.

"Arthur," Eames says. "You bleeding _imbecile_. I kissed you."

/

And the look on Arthur's face is so astonished Eames can't help but laugh, and he doesn't notice Arthur has stood until Arthur's nose bumps against his and then they're stumbling back into bed and it's the best Eames has felt in a long, long time.

Finally, he thinks, humming into Arthur's collarbone, feeling Arthur's fingers scrape across his back, _finally _it is enough.

* * *

Million thanks to arty d'arc for betaing and being awesome and coming up with the summary and that really funny part about Eames's wang and putting up with my insanity.

Read? Review!


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